


they will name a city after us

by RhysennM



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Angst, Bookerbeth - Freeform, Drama & Romance, F/M, Incest, Parent/Child Incest, Relationship Issues, Romantic Angst, The Author Regrets Nothing, nothing is platonic, the author cries over tragic love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhysennM/pseuds/RhysennM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Booker", she would cry joyfully, "come and dance with me". Then she would laugh at you, reaching her hands for yours, and you couldn't help but smile back. Even if the feeling of deja vu strikes you hard and you can swear you hear the music and the clatter of shoes on a boardwalk and the monotonous fall of the waves on the columbian beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they will name a city after us

**Author's Note:**

> Another useless BioShock Infinite AU to make bookerbeth shippers cry. Post-Operation theatre, no lighthouses included. Only a small farmhouse in Provence.

The moment reeks of it. It is a cry in the dark, the desperate cry of lonely souls just trying to find some warmth. You tell yourself you just want to be close to another person, and so does she. But it's not the whole truth, you both know it and both hide it. Don't sail in dangerous waters, don't speak of the venomous past and don't call her Anna. Holy rules of your vicious marriage.

Instead you keep saying that you are alone, you are broken, and it was never meant to happen.

But it happened.

 

Her hands tug at the roots of your hair hard enough to tug them out, but you don't protest because the pain reminds you that you are alive. The warmth of her body reminds you that she, too, is living. And that's all that matters.

It isn't meant to happen.

But you are both so lonely, and you both crave the company of another. Lies again. And you are the only ones left to give it to each other. Broken people are like broken toys - unwelcome and unwanted. That's why you reach out to one another, in every word, in every look, in every kiss and bite, and when every breath becomes a sigh, you say yourself that wrong things happen to wrong people, because it's easier that way.

But at night the shadows creep in and you are both so desperate, and right and wrong don't seem to matter in the face of all the demons in the dark. And when your right marked hand leaves dark bruises on her thigh - she feels sick. And light-headed and so alive.

Her nails scratch into your back and make you bleed and you are glad for it. You are alive in the dark with her in a way that daylight can't replicate, because without her warmth you feel numb.

 

You will both regret it tomorrow in the daylight, because in the daylight you look like ordinary couple and it makes your heart ache.

But ugly daylight suits her. And even if you hate yourself more when the sun rises, you look at her - singing, dancing, baking, laughing - so happy and free, you're ready to meet all the pain your cruel brain prepares for you. 'She's lying to you, don't you see? She's miserable, you gave up on her and then you made her life living hell by saving her' - the voice in your head keeps whispering. But then she smiles. Openly, sweetly and sincerely, the way she smiles at you only. And when she smiles voices are silent, and when she smiles you don't have to feel so guilty.

You remember the way her hair used to blow in the wind as she ran across the fields near your small country cottage. You remember the way it would flash in the sunlight as it danced around her head. She seemed so very young and naive. Even with those mournful eyes of hers.

"Booker", she would cry joyfully, "come and dance with me". Then she would laugh at you, reaching her hands for yours, and you couldn't help but smile back. Even if the feeling of deja vu strikes you hard and you can swear you hear the music and the clatter of shoes on a boardwalk and the monotonous fall of the waves on the columbian beach.

But this is not a flying city, and when you both are lying on the ground you feel its solid roots and dirt underneath, you know it for sure. The next moment your hands are tangled in her hair, her back pressed to the grass, your lips crushing hers. The voices are awake now. But her trembling hands wrap around your back and your heart sings as she moans into your mouth. The voices are screaming but you send them to hell.

 

Sometimes she's quite and sad, and it scares you. She murmurs melodies you don't recognize and her eyes are terribly red. She says she's broken, you tell her she's beautiful. You hold her tightly on the nights she can't sleep, you kiss lick suck every spot on her body, every corner and every mole. She cries when she comes and lays still after. You whisper in her ears words about love, words about forever and this is what matters, you say. She trembles in your arms and believes.

You hate the world for what they've done to her. And when you say 'world' you mean Comstock, you mean yourself. You hate both of yourselves for stripping away her confidence, stripping away her pride and innocence. Because no matter how hard you try to build her back up, sometimes she is falling down the other side and you are losing her. And after all horrors you've seen - losing her is the only thing you are afraid of. You patch her with kisses and hold her together with your arms but sometimes it feels like you're fighting a losing battle and it's killing you.

 

"Tell me about my mother," she says and your world crumbles. You tell her not to ask, you tell her it'll bring only pain. '"Your pain," she spits back and you flinch away as though she's slapped you.

Her words cut and heal you equally.

 

She kisses the scars on your arms, your face, all over your body and she tells you how handsome you are. You growl, tell her not to lie. "I'm not," she swears with laugh. "I cannot imagine anyone more perfect than you" and she kisses away a somber expression on your face.

Every day she tells you that she loves you: she whispers it when you go to sleep and moans it into your ear when you move inside her and says it casually when she hands you the toast at breakfast and you are happy: dizzily, drunkenly happy, so happy you can hardly breathe around it.

 

Hot naked and a bit drunk you lay on a floor because you missed the bed. She moves on top of you, straddling you, and you run your hands up her bare legs and watch as her eyelashes flutter. You are always watching her, because you want her all the time, because you also want her to be happy, because you're afraid that one day she will wake up and realize what you have done, what you've done to her, and she will hate you, and you're afraid of what it will do to you if she does.

You both come almost simultaneously, breathing heavily, she collapses over the top of you, you grab her damp hair in a fist, while your other hand dances on her spine. "Booker, catch," she whispers somewhere to your heart. It's so weird to hear these words again, you almost think you misheard her. "Promise, promise me you'll always be here to catch me, mr. DeWitt," she says with an unsteady voice - her answer on your silent question. Promises... There are some promises that can't be made, some that can't be kept, and some that aren't really understood at the time they're promised. Then there are the promises that mean everything. But all you can think is that your words aren't enough to make her believe. Anyway, you were never good with words. Fear and anger made you rough when you pull her closer, her hair's still in your fist. You force tongue between her swollen lips, giving her feverish, openmouthed kiss, frantic and ravenous. You kiss her with the strength and sureness of a man who wants to make a point, and your kiss is like a gunshot. "Good," you think, "Bullets never lie and neither does the body". Without breaking a kiss she presses her shaking milky hands to your hot cheeks, tough stubble scratches gentle skin on her fingers but she doesn't care and you get the sign. And in the softy, breathy silence after what is one of a hundred kisses, she murmurs, "Thank you".

 

In the daylight you survive and in the night you live and despite how wrong wrong wrong it may be, you cannot stop. Because if you stop, if you stop then you are alone again, and if you are alone again, you will stop living and then you will stop bothering to survive.

And you made a promise to her, before— before, that you would not let that happen.

And you made a promise to yourself that you would keep her safe and alive.

Alive.

So you don't, can't, quit.

But you do hate yourself for it.

But 'hate' means live.

And life with her is worth every bloody minute of this hellfire.


End file.
